


Dry Pull This Motherfucker

by SeidheFae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Injury, Torture, Whump, torture tuesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:56:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeidheFae/pseuds/SeidheFae
Summary: Was inspired by barb-aricyawp over on TumblrBrock Rumlow gets his hands on Clint Barton's bow and arrows.





	Dry Pull This Motherfucker

Clint’s fingers twitch when the bastard who strapped him down hefts the weight of his favorite bow. Tony had made him that bow, it was fucking perfect, and Rumlow had his greasy Hydra mitts all over it. He squirms in his restraints and imagines sinking one of those purple fletched arrows deep into Rumlow’s beady black eyes. It makes a damn pretty picture. 

It distracts, anyway, from the vulnerable feeling climbing in Clint’s gut. He’s naked and exposed and bruised and battered as hell. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he thinks, “how the hell am I going to get out of this one?” 

“You know, Barton,” Rumlow sneers, “I always wondered why they put you with Strike when you use this stupid thing.” 

Clint winces when he dry pulls the bow. Though he would really like to see Rumlow’s face when it sent splinters and shards into his ignorant mouth, it really is his favorite bow. 

The black gloved hands of the Hydra lackie pick up one of his purple fletched arrows. It one of the barbed ones, designed to punch through kevlar and give oh so much joy on the way out. “I bet you I could make an outline of you up against that wall,” Rumlow says, and Clint feels a swooping fear, “no problem.” 

“You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a fucking homing beacon, Rumlow,” Clint says, unable to stop his stupid trap from opening. Oh well. No one had ever accused him of having much of a survival instinct. 

Rumlow’s face darkens and Clint has a split second to squeeze his eyes shut in preparation when he knocks pulls releases and the arrow flies toward him. 

THUNK. 

His eyes snap open in shock when the arrow embeds itself firmly next to his throat. The projectile was so close to him that a thin line of red started sliding slowly down seconds later. Fucking hell, he thought, surprised. Maybe Hydra hadn’t recruited Rumlow for his dashing good looks after all. But then he looks at Rumlow and sees the faint surprise there before it is quickly masked with an arrogant quirk of his lips. 

“What was that, Barton?” the Agent asked, picking up another arrow. 

“In for a penny, in for a mother-fucking-pound,” he thinks with a manic glee before he snorts at Rumlow. “Beginner’s luck,” he grins, intentionally antagonizing his short tempered past friend. 

The jibe works and Rumlow picks up another arrow. “You always were a pain in my ass, Barton,” Rumlow hisses, knocking the fletching back. “Now I get to be a thorn in your fucking thigh,” he grunts at the pull of the bow and releases. 

Clint screams in agony when the arrow bursts through the flesh and muscle of his thigh. He automatically jerks away and the bunching of his legs to try and move sends a vicious jolt through his nervous system. Clint’s entire body locks up and he strains against his restraints. Short strained breaths hiss out between his clenched teeth. Blood is pouring freely from the hole and Clint is feverishly glad that Rumlow shot the outside of his leg so he doesn’t have to worry about his femoral artery getting nicked. 

Rumlow grins at his captive’s pain. “Oops, I guess you were right, Barton.” 

“Fuck,” Clint thinks, “This is going to suuccckk.”


End file.
